Cracked
by pharo
Summary: There are some things she can't fix.


****

Cracked

Author: Pharo

Disclaimer: 'Alias' belongs to ABC, Bad Robot, and JJ Abrams.

Summary: There are some things she can't fix.

Spoilers: "Phase One".

Feedback: pharo@newyork.com

__

'illusion never changed into something real, I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn, you're a little late, I'm already torn…' – Natalie Imbruglia, _'Torn'_

She walks slowly tonight, not because she wants to take in her surroundings and commit every little detail to memory, but because she lacks the motivation to move any faster. 

She remembers distinctly putting on her jogging shoes and scribbling a note saying she went to buy some ice cream – as if he really cared why she wasn't in her room. It won't matter if she gets home ten minutes from now or an hour later – he won't be worried. The foolish part of her mind tells her it's because he knows that she can take care of herself, but the more rational side screams that he doesn't care when she comes home. 

Deep down, they both know that he blames her for everything that has happened. Hell, the days she feels like being completely honest with herself, she knows that it's her fault. 

She pretends that she doesn't hear him crying in the bathroom at night sometimes. She pretended the week after they found out that everything could be fine, that it was all fixable, and she has continued with the charade ever since. 

She remembered the way he looked at her and wondered if she had seemed the same way when Danny died. His eyes had nothing left in them – the twinkle that she associated with him was gone. He rarely smiled these days – she thinks that maybe he feels like he'll be betraying the memories he has left if he smiles – and his grins don't exist anymore. 

She doesn't know who he is anymore. She imagines he feels the same way about her. They live one room away from each other, yet they are complete strangers now – they have come to the point where they have polite conversations and nothing more.

In the beginning she tried. She tried to make it better for him – she fooled herself into thinking she could take away that pain that she had caused him. 

"We'll be ok," she told him during dinner once.

"No, we won't. We don't know how to be ok."

She hadn't known whether to admit that he was right or to lie and tell him that if they tried, they'd be fine. She ultimately decided to lie because that's what she knew to do best.

She wants to tell him that he has the right to be happy. Anyone in his position would've stopped hurting long ago and moved on. He's scrutinized over enough of the details, stopped his life long enough, and gone through enough pain to allow himself to be remotely happy now. He can be the guy he used to be without feeling guilty. In the end, she settles for writing stupid grocery notes about ice cream and hoping that he'll wake up and remember that he's her best friend.

"Hello Sydney," the lady from next door greets as she slowly walks up to her house.

"Hi Jill," she says forcing a smile.

"How are you holding up?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Just went to get some ice cream." 

She feels the need to prove herself by holding up the plastic bag that contains the melting ice cream.

"How's he doing?"

"He's good. In fact, I better get inside. He's probably waiting to start the movie."

The solemn smile and knowing nod she gets from Jill makes her sad. Her life has come to the point where her neighbor can see straight through her. What's worse is the fact that she feels compelled to lie about her life to a woman who hardly knows her. Just so Jill thinks that her life is normal. She doesn't quite remember when she started caring about what people who were practically strangers started thinking about her.

__

'It's when your best friend became one of those strangers,' she thinks as she walks up the steps to her front door.

"I'm home," she calls out as she throws her keys on the hall table.

She still finds herself wishing for an answer. After all these weeks, she still thinks in terms of 'maybe'. 

She knocks twice and slowly opens his door to pop her head in. 

"Hey," she says, finding him sitting in bed with a notebook in hand. "Just wanted to tell you that I bought some Rocky Road in case you were hungry."

"No, thank you," he says before going back to the pad.

"What are you doing?"

She's not ready to leave yet.

"Outlining. They asked me to review the latest hot spots in town. Bowling alleys, clubs, restaurants," he says, his voice cracking a little. He quickly looks down and blinks furiously.

"Will, I—"

"I better get back to this," he says, ushering at the paper as he cuts her off.

She doesn't know what to say to make it better for him.

"Um, I'll just let you get back to work then."

"Good night."

"'Night."

She gives a small smile and slowly ducks out of the room. She makes it to the bathroom and is able to turn on the sink before she breaks down.

————

She hates the way the cold air of the warehouse clings to her skin these days. The feelings sticks with her for the rest of the day and she can't help but wonder how the CIA interrogators sit in rooms like that day in and day out. 

She paces the warehouse now, waiting for him to show up with his dossiers and show his CIA identification card to the security men at the fence. Every now and then, she stops and considers planting herself on one of the boxes, but doesn't want more of the warehouse feeling than she already has.

"You're late," she says when he finally arrives.

"Sorry. Traffic," he says quickly with an apologetic smile. "Sydney, how are you?" 

"I wish you'd quit asking me that," she snaps then automatically regrets it. "Sorry. It's just – this warehouse grates on my nerves."

"I'm sorry. There was a time when—"

"A lot of things have changed since then, Vaughn," she says softly. "Why do we – why do we still meet here?"

"I didn't know it bothered you so much," he says.

She can tell that she has hurt him. 

"I'm just not feeling very good today."

"Is it Will?" 

There was a time when she would've beamed at the acknowledgement of her personal life or the fact that he remembered her friends. Now she wishes she had never let things get personal. Maybe then, things would've been different and everything would be like it used to be.

"No," she says quickly, offering no other information.

She knows it's unfair of her to shut him out now, but she has stopped caring about what is fair. All she cares about now is getting out of the warehouse.

"So why'd you call?"

"They're worried."

"Why? I thought we got all the SD cells."

"About you. They're worried about you," he clarifies.

She scoffs.

"I didn't know they cared so much. So Kendall is getting you to check up on me?"

"I don't need Kendall to force me to see you, Syd. You know that."

"No?" she asks. "Then why were you late, Vaughn?"

"What?"

She's caught him off-guard.

"You're never late," she says quietly.

"I told you. There was—"

She holds up her hand.

"Come on, Vaughn. I don't need lies."

"Why are you taking this out on me?"

"I'm not taking anything out on you!" she says, louder than intended.

"I don't need lies either. Nothing you could've done could've stopped it from happening. You didn't do anything wrong, Syd."

She shakes her head.

"No, I did everything wrong."

He starts to say something but she cuts him off.

"Is that it?"

Silence.

"Yeah."

"Well you can tell them that I'm fine then."

She looks to his eyes for verification and he slowly nods. She starts to walk to the fence before his voice stops her.

"Sometimes it _is_ just traffic, Sydney."

She quickly walks past the fences and out of the warehouse. She hates that her bridges can be burned so easily.

————

She drives home like a madwoman. She doesn't expect to see anyone sitting on her couch when she opens the door and puts down her purse. She doesn't notice her for the first thirty seconds or so – no one is supposed to be home at that time – but she finally notices someone watching her from the couch.

"How'd you get in here?" she asks, kicking off a shoe.

It's a stupid question and she's awarded with a stupid answer.

"You haven't changed the place where you hide the spare keys," she jokes.

"Will's here?"

"No, he had to drop off the article, remember?"

She nods.

"It reminds him of you."

"A lot of things remind him of me."

"Why are you here, Fran?"

"You tell me," Francie says, looking at her and then looking around the room. "It has been awhile, but everything still looks the same."

"Well, we didn't want to change anything after you – well, you know – and sometimes it feels like you're still here."

"But I'm not," Francie says. "Come on, I haven't been here for awhile. Syd, you have to let go."

"Will misses you."

Francie smiles at her as she leans back against the couch cushions.

"And you don't?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "Come on, this is all in _your _head, Syd, not his."

"Of course I miss you, Fran, but it's worse for him. He's still hurting. He doesn't know how to compartmentalize."

"He has a right to hurt."

"I know, but I wish he'd talk to me about it. God, this is ridiculous! I know you're not really here," she says, before quietly adding, "are you?" 

"What do you think?"

"I think Barnett would have a field day when she realized that I had an imaginary friend."

"Well, I sure as hell have no one to tell," Francie says. "I'm dead, remember?"

She winces at how simple it sounds.

"I try to forget," she says, but the image of her dead friend has already faded.

She lets out a shaky sigh as the ache resurfaces and flows through her entire body. Sometimes, it just hurts too much to handle and she can feel herself breaking. 

No one is left to remind her how the pieces are supposed to fit together.

————

She waits for him to come home. She paces the little hall in front of his bedroom, listening for the sound of his car pulling up or his key jingling. She listens and waits, paces and waits, and thinks that maybe tonight will be the night when he decides not to come home. 

It hurts too much to know that they've drifted apart. He doesn't even make the effort to pretend he's ok anymore. It seems like forever since she's heard his voice. He's all gestures – nods and pointed fingers.

She hears the front door swing open and practically runs to meet him in the living room. 

"You're home," she says as he hangs his coat in the closet.

He nods his greeting at her and she can feel her eyes fill with tears.

"Oh God Will, you're home," she says, hugging him. He stands like a stone statue for the longest time before pushing her away slowly.

"Something wrong?" he asks, looking at her with weary eyes.

She feels like one of those girls in high school that cried to get her way. She feels like she's forcing him – making him feel guilty enough – to care.

"I don't know what's gotten into me," she says sniffing. 

She tries to force herself to smile, but thinks that maybe her muscles don't work that way anymore. It's been so long and now she's forgotten how. 

"I'm going to go to my room," he says.

"We don't ever talk anymore, Will," she says quickly.

"Is there something you wanted to talk about?" he asks, his back still turned to her.

"How do I make you stop hating me?" 

His back muscles tense.

"I don't hate you," he says without much conviction. He turns to face her.

"I know you blame me for Francie's death. I do, too."

He manages to drop into the nearest barstool. He tries to control his emotions, but the pain is engraved in his eyes.

"Please don't," he whispers.

"We need to talk about this."

He shakes his head and she knows that he's about a second away from covering his ears and singing the alphabet song.

"Don't shut me out, Will."

"Don't."

"Don't what?" she asks angrily. "Don't tell you the truth? Don't try to work this…thing…out."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

He sighs and looks at her. She doesn't think she's ever seen his eyes that dark or heard his voice that cold.

"Don't pretend that talking about it will make it all better. Don't think for a second that we can talk about it and everything can be happy again, that it'll make me forget."

"I don't want to make you forget, Will," she says, softer now.

"No, you just want to pretend that it never happened."

"Isn't that what we've been doing Will? Playing this game of pretend?"

This elicits a bitter laugh from him.

"Is that what you think I've been doing?"

She shakes her head.

"I _know _that's what you've been doing. I've done it – had to do it – so many times. It's always just so much easier to give into the delusion. To tell people you're ok because there's nothing not to be ok about."

"I'm trying to survive, Syd. I'm trying to get through a second, a single moment when I don't think of her or what I've done to her—"

"You didn't do anything, Will," she says. "I did."

"We did, Sydney. We. I am no better than you are. All that time I spent trying to figure out why – how – you could lie to my face like that and I was doing it to her."

"I told you to—"

"God, I was sitting there and going along with the whole damn thing and it didn't seem to matter. It was for her good. What's a little lie here and there, right?" he asks rhetorically. "Only that little lie, that seemingly small detail we kept from her, it killed her."

"No," she says. "No, listen to me."

She forces him to look at her.

"Will, if we had told her, they would've killed her a whole lot sooner than that."

"And that justifies it? God Syd, can you even hear yourself?"

"I'm not—"

"She died on the inside long before they got to her, Syd. Do you remember how hurt she would look every time she saw us? We betrayed her, Sydney," he says slowly. "Every time we told her that it was nothing, she knew we were lying and nothing you can say will change that. She knew that there wasn't something quite…"

"Right," she finishes.

He nods.

"I can't – I can't do this right now."

He starts to get up.

"Will, stop. You can't keep living like this."

"I have to. There is no getting past this for me," he says sadly.

"I can help you—"

He holds up his hand to cut her off. She wants so badly to do something that will make him feel better.

  
"I can't accept things as simply as you can."

"Why won't you let me help you, Will?"

"Because I can't look at you without thinking of her."

"Of what I did to her," she says sadly.

"This isn't about placing blame – the truth of the matter is that it happened and I don't think I can get over it."

"I don't think you want to," she says softly. "You want to punish yourself by taking on all this guilt, but I won't let you. I won't, Will. You don't want all this. Trust me, you don't. I can't watch you kill yourself like this."

"It's not your choice."

He walks away before she can stop him. 

————

She spends the night on the couch. All that's left of him by the time she wakes up in the morning is nine words on a slip of paper.

__

I need to deal with this on my own.

Her demons are slowly killing him.


End file.
